


To Be or Not To Be

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: 2015 Valentine's Challenge, F/M, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is assigned a female partner for an unusual assignment, performing in a Shakespearean production. She's the expert on the Bard and is none to gentle in her opinions of Kuryakin's acting skills.  </p><p>It's a lusty interpretation of a gorgeous photo manip prompt by Avery11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be or Not To Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avery11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/gifts).



### 

 

Illya Kuryakin sat at a back table in the Canteen, staring intently at an auburn haired woman. Leaning his elbow on the table, he rested his chin on his hand as he began to quietly recite lines from a Shakespearean sonnet; mustering all he could to do it properly, though he just wasn’t in the mood.

_“From fairest creatures we desire increase,_

_That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,_

_But as the riper should by time decease_

_His tender heir might bear his memory._

_But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,_

_Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,_

_Making a famine where abundance lies,_

_Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel._

_Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament_

_And only herald to the gaudy spring,_

_Within thine own bud buriest thy content,_

_And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding._

_Pity the world, or else this glutton be,_

_To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.”_

 

He waited patiently at its conclusion, though the woman’s critique was not exactly forthcoming.

She finally sighed.”That was terrible. You’ll never pass as a Shakespearean actor at this rate.”

Kathleen Sullivan, a Section III agent was well versed in the works of the bard, having minored in Shakespeare in college. How she ended up as an operative for U.N.C.L.E. was unclear, but here she was.

She was supposed to be coaching the Russian; the two of them to perform as part of their assignment in an independently produced show consisting of recitals from a number of works by William Shakespeare.

Kuryakin and Sullivan had been set up to be the ones selected for their parts when the auditions came round, as the director was a friend of Waverly’s. It was he who tipped off U.N.C.L.E. as to some possible monkey business; there’d been strangers creeping around the cast, making them nervous. They were identified as agents of T.H.R.U.S.H. 

There was a handoff to take place during that production. No one was sure what it was exactly, but the fact that the feathered ones were involved meant it couldn’t be good.

“You are not being very helpful,” Illya snapped at her, keeping his voice low. “Instead of telling me it is terrible, tell me what I need to do to improve myself.  We have little time before rehearsal begins.”

“Your voice is all wrong, it’s too monotone with no feeling. I know that’s the way you speak since you’re a foreigner, and given the fact your reputation as being cold-hearted….well if the shoe fits. It’s coming through in your recitation. You can’t be you, you need to let the words envelop you. There’s nothing passionate about your recitation at all. Perhaps the Ice Prince was a poor choice for this job.” Her words were biting and laced with sarcasm.

“Ouch. Kathleen that was completely unnecessary and I must say rather shrewish of you. I suggest you drop your petty prejudices and concentrate on helping me get my part right. It is in your best interest to do so. And by the way, is not wise to question Mr. Waverly’s choice of agents for an assignment.” Illya’s response was succinct, and reciprocal.

“A shrew, you’re calling me a shrew? How dare you!”

“As you said my dear, if the shoe fits.” Illya shrugged, calmly lifted his mug and taking a sip of his tea.

She wasn’t one to back down from any man no matter who he was. Kuryakin had a reputation of being a hard nose and definitely the opposite of his partner who was no more than a lothario in her estimation.

”All right Mister Smartass, tell me in your own words what you just recited to me? I want to see if you at least understand what’s really being said.”

“Fine, Illya huffed.“ As I interpret it, it is desirable that the most beautiful people have children in order for their beauty to be preserved forever. When a parent dies, the child left behind will remind all around  of his or her familial beauty.  But you...or a woman such as yourself is letting her beauty burn itself out. You’re starving the world of what makes you beautiful rather than spreading the wealth around. You are acting like your own worst enemy with your shrewish ways. A woman’s beauty is like a new bud, and you are letting it die before it can develop and bring true happiness.”

She grew red in the face, hearing that he was twisting around the meaning of the sonnet in relation to her. Two could play that game and she threw it right back at him.

“Well you’re young” she retorted,” but you act like an old man. You’re wasting your beauty by keeping it all to yourself. Take pity on the rest of us, or this is how you’ll be remembered, as the greedy pig who hogged his own beauty and took it with him to the grave.”

“Touché,” he laughed. “But what do you Americans say? Sticks and stones…”

“You, Illya Kuryakin are impossible!” Kathleen shoved back her chair, knocking it the the floor as she rose.  She didn’t care that everyone in the Canteen was now staring at her as she stormed out. All she could see in her head were those eyes of his, those cold piercing ice blue eyes.

She practically snarled as she passed through the doors.

Napoleon stepped up to the table, having observed the scene from the side lines, and picking up the chair, he sat sat down with his partner. He took a sip from his coffee mug before setting it down in front of himself; then came the mischievous smile.

“Going to tell me what that was all about chum? Having lady problems?

“Not really.” Illya took another sip of tea.

“Don’t you have an upcoming assignment with Shakespeare Sully?”

“Napoleon as CEA you are well aware of that fact, so do not ask me a question to which you already have the answer.”

“My aren’t we touchy. So I ask again, now as your CEA, since you were the one who brought up rank. What was that all about?”

Illya sighed, resigning himself to the fact he’d fallen into a trap of his own making. His partner was never one to miss an opportunity to drill him for answers. When Napoleon played the CEA and Senior agent card; he had no choice but to surrender.

“Miss Sullivan is supposed to be coaching me on my Shakespearean recitation but instead she is being nothing but hypercritical without offering any solutions with which I can improve myself. She is being rather aggressive and head strong in her opinions of me personally and I fear that is clouding her judgement.”

"Then maybe we’ll just get someone else to do the assignment with you. I can take care of that you know.”

“It is too late. Besides she knows her material inside out, no one else could manage to memorize that much by tomorrow, at which time the rehearsal for the show takes place.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you other than hang in there and good luck,” Napoleon retreated from the table, heading to get his lunch and chat up Carmella Nucci, the newest member of the secretarial pool.

Kuryakin left, walking down to the offices of Section IV.

The Intelligence division had amassed quite a bit of audio visual material, offering a library for any agent to reference. That didn’t include what information was on the mainframe computers.

Preparation for an assignment was of the utmost importance, especially if one would be dealing with an undercover role. Illya knew he had to get this right.

He was well versed in Shakespeare, simply because he recalled what he’d read thanks to his eidetic memory. Still, was Kathleen right? Did he lack feeling behind the words? He knew what they meant, yet his recitation was flat. She was right and in her own superior way, she’d told him.

“Hi Mr. Kuryakin,” the agent at the desk greeted him.”What can I do to help you today?”

“Mr. Daniels, do we have any recordings of the works of Shakespeare?”

“Do we? Wow, we have Richard Burton in Henry V, Sir John Gielgud performing in ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream, and Peter O’Toole doing the ‘Taming of the Shrew.”

Illya was surprised at the quick response and looked quizzically at the young man.  
“Hey it gets a little lonely down here sometimes, so I listen to things, what can I tell you?” Daniels shrugged as he chuckled.

“Well I will take those three recordings to start”, though Illya suspected the 'Taming of the Shrew' would be more than informative for what he needed in preparation for his performance.

Kuryakin listened intently to that last recording of Peter O’Toole. He was playing  Petruchio most aggressively, perhaps virile was a better word. He swaggered, exhibiting braggadocio and it was quite an amazing performance. His Kate was Dame Peggy Ashcroft, and in their first scene together she threw her shoe at him, slapped his face and bit him.

Petruchio’s answer was to kneel beside her and put her shoe back on her. and yet by the end of the scene, it was he who was in control.

Illya snapped his finger, realizing this was what he needed to channel in his performance. However, at the same time he needed to maintain his vigilance as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. He and Kathleen were on an assignment after all.

During the first rehearsal, Illya tried to picture O’Toole in his mind, but still kept things a bit more sedate. He needed to save the pure rawness for the actual performance. He needed to show Kathleen that he was capable of showing emotion both tender and powerful.

“That was better,” Kathleen snickered,” but still not good enough.” She turned her back on him, heading to the women’s dressing room.

Illya practically growled. The woman was …infuriating!

Granted he was the Ice Prince, but that was just a facade, a way of dealing with others, and keeping them at bay when they became too curious about him. His mantra since he was first trained in earnest back in Paris by his handler Katiya Revchenkov was to never let anyone know things about you personally. ‘The less people know the longer you would live.’ This was what he lived by.  He hid his emotions, keeping them under lock and key, but for once he would let them loose. He’d show her what he was capable of, and of that he had no doubt.

She continued to torment him, hissing at his recitation as she’d stick her finger in his face.

“Not good enough,” she’d hiss, barely audible before storming off the stage. Somehow the director knew not to get between the two of them.

Illya bit his tongue, remaining stoic as he watched her lips pout and her eyes go wild. Though her behavior was exasperating, somehow he was beginning to find her wildness...stimulating.

At last rehearsals were mercifully over, and tomorrow would be the culmination of the mission, as well as Illya’s and Kathleen’s performance.

  
The night of the show arrived, and they discovered the actor playing Macbeth was the courier, but who his contact was...that was the ultimate question. So far there was nothing that gave them the answer they needed.

Finally, at the last minute the one of the Witches who’d be performing the scene with MacBeth from the play of the same name, was suddenly taken ill and she was replaced by a completely new person who was not a regular understudy.

That was it, that had to be the one who’d be receiving the handoff.

The agents watched from the wings like a hawk as the Witch's scene drew to it’s conclusion with the entrance of MacBeth.

_“A drum, a drum!_

_Macbeth doth come.”_

The hag-like witches circled a bubbling cauldron, their scarlet and grey gowns flowing wildly as they moved.

“ _The weird sisters, hand in hand,_

_Posters of the sea and land,_

_Thus do go, about, about,_

_Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,_

_And thrice again, to make up nine._

_Peace, the charm’s wound up.”_

Macbeth entered. Dressed in kingly garb of deep green velvet and a golden crown on his head; he proceeded immediately with his lines and discreetly handed off a small parcel to Witch number two, the one with the cowl covering her head.

The performance concluded and as the audience applauded, the players left the stage. Forcing the agents to act quickly; Illya signalled to his partner to move in and cut off Witch two before she made it into the dressing room.

Kathleen cornered her, and quickly relieved the woman of the parcel; karate chopping her into unconsciousness. Tossing the package off to Kuryakin as she knocked the woman to the floo.  Sullivan discreetly dragged her out of sight into a broom closet, shoving a chair beneath the door knob to keep the her secure for the moment.

Illya intern passed the parcel to Mark Slate who’d been playing the part of a stage hand and acting as their backup. Mark quickly disappeared out the stage door to an awaiting car, and that as they say was that.

However, the show had to go on to keep up appearances, and as Lady MacDuff finished her bit, and the fairy folk from A Midsummer’s Night Dream frolicked across the stage; Kathleen made her entrance.

Bathed in the spotlight, she stood there alone until Illya slipped from the shadows into the light to stand beside her. She tried calm herself after the momentary excitement, and took a deep breath to gain her composure.

Kathleen said her lines like a seaoned pro, though her voice was shaky at first. And Illya, looking her up and down, found her appearance in her costume very appealing. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed that before, and his eyes were drawn to her heaving bosoms, just peaking out from beneath her bodice.

Illya recited his sonnet, focusing on her face, as if she were the only woman left in the world, his voice dulcet... honeyed.

He reached out, clasping her by the waist and drew her to him. Her eyes captivated by his as he took control. Gone was the icy blue stare that could stop an enemy agent in its tracks, and in its place were two warm limpet pools. Yet as his gaze captured her attention, suddenly she had caught his.

Kathleen was simply beautiful with that flaming red hair of hers, and those moist red lips begging to be kissed. The excitement of the moment, the words he spoke and the feeling behind them rose to the surface, as did a certain part of Illya’s anatomy.

He pressed himself against her in those black leather pants of his, making sure she felt him; his heat and desire.  Surely she did; the Russian desperately wanted her to feel it and to know how passionate the Ice Prince could be.

And when he was finished speaking his lines, Illya did something unrehearsed. He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her face to him, her lips to his, and he kissed her... hard.

Illya held that kiss for what seemed like an eternity, and she responded, her tongue meeting his.  
Kathleen’s heart pounded, her breathing quickened. His muskiness was nearly overwhelming and he tasted like...cinammon.

“Oh my God...I want you,” she leaned in when their lips parted; whispering in his ear.

Without warning the Russian released her, pushing her back as he stepped from the spotlight returning to the darkness; leaving her standing there alone on stage with her mouth agape, and most assuredly in a daze.

There was a thunderous round of applause as the audience rose to their feet, though Illya was oblivious to it as he quickly headed backstage.

He flashed a wry smile, knowing he’d just tamed his shrew…


End file.
